In The Bleak Midwinter
by Gevaudan
Summary: A murder, a hit and run and a suicide. A normal December for Oxfordshire CID but how are they all connected, and can Lewis and Hathaway join the dots before Christmas? Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

In The Bleak Midwinter

Disclaimer:All characters are not mine and belong to Colin Dexter and/or ITV.

Rating: As the show. People will die, it will not be especially grizzly, there may be occasional swearing but nothing out of character and nothing too strong.

Author's Note: This is my first Lewis fic so all feedback gratefully received. I'll do my best to get it all written and uploaded fairly promptly. Its unbeta-ed so all cock ups are mine. All feedback gratefully received particularly if you think someone is out of character (or in character – makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside!)

Enjoy.

The Cricketer's Arms had very much entered into the spirit of the festive season, decked out as it was in garlands and fairy lights. A chalk board propped up at the bar advertised the sale of mulled wine and cider, with the obligatory accompanying mince pie while a Christmas tree that had seen one too many drunken revellers teetered precariously in one corner.

The clientele changed around Christmas, as the students decamped and returned home for a month's worth of home cooking, and instead were replaced by an endless parade of office partygoers, all complete with requisite crackers, paper hats and a sprinkling of reindeer antlers.

The beer garden was no longer the domain of cheery, drinking, sun-seekers lazily watching passing oarsmen and instead had become home only to those smokers brave, or desperate, enough to face the biting chill of winter in England. It was from this quiet vantage point that James Hathaway, cigarette in one hand, pint in the other, dispassionately viewed the crowd, paying particular attention to the table in the centre of the room filled with his colleagues. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy parties per se, but he had discovered that after a couple of glasses of wine Chief Superintendant Innocent had a tendency to lose all sense of propriety and recount stories from her policing past that Hathaway had no particular desire to have seared into his memory.

"Alright, Jim?" the soft, Geordie accent of his boss drew him out of his thoughts, and he turned to greet Lewis, failing to repress a smile at the sight of a Santa hat perched jauntily on his boss's head. "What you doing freezing out here when you could be enjoying some enforced entertainment inside?" A gale of laughter from their table interrupted him briefly as he ruefully shook his head, "she'll have us all playing party games next..."

Hathaway raised his half smoked cigarette in answer, "It's alright Sir, I haven't quite got to the stage where I feel the need to create a fictitious emergency. I'm good for at least another couple of pints yet."

Lewis smiled at the younger man's desultory tone, and raised the pint glasses he carried in each hand, earning another smile from the sergeant.

"You must be Santa come early," Hathaway remarked as he took the glass, "My boss would never have forked out for a pint!"

"And he hasn't yet," retorted Lewis, "compliments of the Super, Merry Christmas, lad."

"Merry Christmas, Sir," Hathaway glanced at his watch, "although it is only the... fourteenth of December."

"Sergeant," reproved Lewis, his tone of voice conveying far more than should be possible for a single word, which prompted the younger man to school his features into a picture of innocence, leaving behind only the faintest smirk, which may or may not, be caused merely by the shape of his face.

They stood side by side in companionable silence for a few moments, broken only by an off-key rendition of "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" from a group within the pub. As his thoughts wandered, Lewis suddenly realised he had no idea where his enigmatic bagman spent the holiday if, of course, they were actually able to take some time off. Buoyed by a few beers Lewis decided to broach the subject with his taciturn sergeant.

"Any plans for Christmas, James?"

Hathaway remained silent, and took a deep drag of his cigarette clearly thinking about his answer.

"Not a great deal, Sir. I have a couple of unshakeable commitments but nothing exciting."

"Oh?"

"Well, I like to go to Midnight Mass," Hathaway explained.

"And the other?" asked Lewis, curiously.

"Well Sir, I do really like the Muppet's Christmas Film. How about you?"

Lewis sighed, almost sadly.

"Well, my lad's still in Australia and Lyn and the family are at the in-laws on Christmas Day so I imagine the day will involve me, the TV and some beers," he paused in thought for a moment, then with a courage borne of beer offered, "If you fancy popping over I'll let you have control of the remote for the Muppets."

James looked up in almost boyish surprise, then a shy grin spread across his features.

"I'd like that, Sir. Can't do with leaving you on your own at Christmas."

"Well, that's sorted then. Right, as I see it we have two choices here."

Hathaway quirked a querying eyebrow.

"Well," Lewis elaborated, "We can make a desperate bid for freedom now. Or..."

"Or," Hathaway drained the remains of his second pint, "If we can't beat them, join them?"

Lewis copied his actions, then resolutely straightened his shoulders. "Exactly, Sergeant."

The next morning, the offices of Oxforshire Police CID were decidedly quiet as Lewis made his way into the building quarter of an hour late. In their shared office Hathaway sat morosely at his desk, head resting in one hand, glass of water in the other.

"You look like you could do with a smoke," Lewis commented, and was rewarded by a faint green tinge appearing across the younger man's face, "For a man talking about escaping you were having a remarkably good time when I left."

Hathaway groaned in response, and tentatively sipped his water. Before he could reply, or Lewis could tease any further, the shrill ring tone of the sergeant's phone started up, causing him to wince dramatically at the assault on his ears.

"Hathaway," he answered, glumly. There was a long paused as he listened intently to the caller, "Yes. Whereabouts?" There was another pause. "Thank you. See you shortly."

He hung up with another misery filled groan and turned to face Lewis once more.

"Where?" asked the inspector, knowing instinctively what his sergeant was about to report.

"Summer Meadows Retirement Bungalows. Number twenty six."

Lewis nodded and plucked the keys deftly out of Hathaway's hands.

"I think I'd better drive today, don't you?" he suggested, softening the rebuke with a smile and an almost fatherly shake of the head.

James started to nod then realised that the movement was sending shooting pains through his head, causing him to abort the movement swiftly. Lewis stifled a smile at the expression on the younger man's face.

"Come on," he suggested, "Let's get this over with."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the reviews of Chapter 1, they are much appreciated. For those of you who were amused by hungover Hathaway in the first instalment, you will be unsurprised to discover his moaning continues in chapter two. What can I say? I'm a sucker for suffering Hathway, even if it is self-induced!

Chapter Two

The body that Laura Hobson was crouched over on Lewis's arrival was that of eighty six year old widow. Mary Blackwell. She lay in her open plan living room, beside a smashed cup of tea with a faint look of surprise on her face and a pool of congealing blood beneath her soft white curls of hair. The window looking out over a neatly kept back garden was smashed, and certain objects such as the television were conspicuous by their absence.

"Suspicious then?" Lewis commented, rhetorically, glancing between the shattered glass and the frail, nightgown clad, corpse.

Hobson rocked back on her heels and rose to meet him, smiling slightly as she did so. As she moved her blonde hair settled forward onto her shoulders in a way that Lewis couldn't help but find attractive.

"Certainly looks that way," she confirmed, banishing her wayward hair with an unconscious shrug, "she appears to have been hit over the head by that old favourite of ours, the blunt instrument," she looked around for a moment, a frown of puzzlement on her face, "No dashing Sergeant today?"

Lewis rolled his eyes.

"No," he agreed, "But my reprobate, slightly worse-for-wear Sergeant is suffering outside," he moved towards the front of the room and gestured out of the window to where Hathaway stood talking to the uniformed officers outside, arms folded sternly and a hangdog expression on his face.

"Ah yes," Laura grinned, "He seemed to be having a great time when I left last night."

Lewis recalled that when he had left at the relatively tame hour of midnight, Laura had still been present, punctuating whatever story she had been telling with dramatic shakes of her glass of Bailey's.

"What time did you leave?" he asked, curiously.

She paused in thought for a moment, as though trying to pull together hazy details. "Must have been about one," she mused after a moment, "It was just as James there was finishing his rendition of "Fairytale of New York" with Matthew Jones from the lab." She laughed openly at the surprised expression on the Inspector's face, "I did hear that they rounded it off with a stunning version of "All I Want For Christmas Is You" though sadly I'd left by that point and disappointingly as far as I can tell the rumour of video is unfounded." She shook her head sympathetically, "No wonder he's suffering."

Lewis stifled a smile of affection. Although he would unmercifully tease Hathaway for his hangover, he found himself secretly pleased that the younger officer had, for once, relaxed. Brilliant though he was, the Inspector often found himself worrying that his Sergeant was too prone to taking his work home and brooding over it, particularly since the Zelinsky case. It would do the team no harm either, to see that the usually dour officer was actually aware of the concept of fun, for although Lewis was all too familiar with James wit and sharp tongue, it passed many of the others by. So, just this once he'd forgive him his hangover, and its accompanying grumpy demeanour; not that he would tell Hathaway that.

The object of their interest looked up at that point, and on noting their attention cast a half-hearted smile in the Doctor's direction as he crossed the lawn towards the front door. A moment later he reappeared, unconsciously dropping his head to avoid a collision with the doorframe. He surveyed the room dispassionately, at the sight of the corpse on the floor he swallowed slightly and his lips tightened, in sorrow or frustration, it was impossible to tell, but otherwise his expression remained emotionless.

"Alright, James?" Hobson asked brightly, with an accompanying mischievous grin.

"The good Doctor's just been filling me in on what I missed last night, Jim," Lewis commented, with what could only be described as an evil smirk. "I thought world music with a combination of jazz and medieval madrigals was more your thing?"

Hathaway flushed, and flicked a sharp, accusatory look at Hobson. He made no acknowledgement of the comment and started to deliver his report in a flat monotone. A faint flush of guilt crossed Hobson's face, and Lewis quirked a quick reassuring smile at her. Hathaway would see the funny side he was sure, once he was no longer feeling as though he had been trampled by a herd of cows.

"Postman made his usual rounds at nine, had a parcel that wouldn't fit through the letterbox. Rang the doorbell and knocked a couple of times, no response. Says he got a bit concerned because he sees her pottering about most days at this time so came over to have a look through the front window and saw Mrs Turnball there. All the doors were locked, and he has a bad back so couldn't climb through the window to help her. Called the police and here we are.

Uniform have started a door to door, no luck yet, Mrs Smith at number 24 left to spend Christmas with her daughter three days ago according to Mrs Banford at 22 and the gentleman at number 28 is as deaf as a post so heard nothing and was in bed until nine this morning so hasn't seen anyone strange. One of the houses opposite is empty and up for sale and Mr Hopkins in the other house has carers come to get him up, they arrived at about eight fifteen and he's been in his front room since about half past, he's seen no one but the postman.

Apparently she has one daughter, divorced, lives over in Summertown with her two children. She's been informed and will be coming in to the station later on to make a formal identification."

Lewis nodded, Hathaway's ruthless efficiency went a long way towards minimising their time spent waiting at crime scenes for information and the inspector was often amazed by the sheer amount of detail he could provide after one short conversation with the attending uniformed officers.

"Good work, Hathaway." He commented, and was pleased to see a softening of the younger man's expression. Ah, that was it, Lewis realised, Hathaway didn't like to feel he was anything less than perfect at his job, and coming in with a hangover did not fit in with that. Especially when he didn't have the suicide of old friend's as an excuse.

"What have you got for us?" he asked the patiently waiting pathologist at his side.

"Much as I've already told you, hit over the head with a blunt instrument, frail lady like this... probably very quick," she paused for a moment, "time of death, I'd say early this morning – between five and eight perhaps, though instinct tells me it's earlier in that margin."

The two officers nodded.

"Makes sense," Lewis agreed, "There do appear to be a few things missing, and if this is a robbery gone wrong then it most likely happened while it was dark."

"Sunrise was around eight fifteen this morning, sir," Hathaway told him after a brief glance at his phone, "though obviously there would have been some light before that."

"Alright, we're going to need a list of what's missing," Lewis concluded, "Hathaway can you bring the daughter over after she's identified the body and get a list? Then we can start to look for the re-sales."

James nodded, and looked again around the room, jotting a few notes in his ever present notebook.

"In the meantime," Lewis continued, "We'll head back to the station, see if we've had any recent similar thefts, or any of our regulars have been released recently, while we wait for the daughter to come in. Doctor, it's been a pleasure as always, come on Jim, let's get you a coffee, eh lad?"

With a grateful smile at his boss, and an apologetic one at Hobson, Hathaway followed Lewis back out into the cold.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all the reviews and comments, they are always much appreciated. I am trying to write this in as similar a style to an episode as I can manage, but if it starting to drag please let me know and I'll do my best to pick up the pace!

Chapter 3

Anyone who observed Sergeant Hathaway that morning was witness to the restorative powers of cups of coffee; strong, black and drunk in copious quantities. By half past eleven his pallid complexion had restored itself to its usual merely pale and he cast occasional glances from his report of the morning's burglary and subsequent murder, to out of the window, clearly longing for his next fix of nicotine. He had even cheered up sufficiently to hum Christmas tunes idly under his breath, although he halted that as soon as he saw his Inspector's broad grin.

Lewis in the meantime was sorting his mail, sighing dispiritedly at the vast quantities of junk he seemed to receive regarding a whole manner of things that didn't appear to relate in any way to any form of policing. Groaning melodramatically in disgust he cast the pile to the desk and picked up his mug.

"Another coffee, Jim?" he asked, startling the younger man out of typing what was clearly a sentence filled with far more syllables than Lewis could cope with.

"I'll get them sir," the younger man offered, reaching eagerly for his mug and knocking over a sheaf of paper with his elbow as he did so. Lewis doubted whether the man would sleep at any point in the next month, he seemed to have consumed enough coffee in the last couple of hours to run the National Grid over the entire Christmas period. Although, it did occur to him that it seemed on many occasions that Hathaway didn't actually sleep anyway.

"You're alright, you're the only one of the two of us actually doing some work."

Hathaway nodded his appreciation with a quicksilver grin, and reached to pick up his papers, shaking his head ruefully at them as he did so.

"Nothing in the post then?" he asked, as he swiftly shuffled the papers into something resembling an order.

"Depends on how you feel about a session of lunchtime "Path To Enlightenment" yoga?"

The sergeant appeared to attempt to hold back his smirk, although he was largely unsuccessful.

"I'd rather have the coffee I think, sir."

"Smart lad."

When Lewis returned, two brimming mugs of coffee in hand, James was on the phone listening intently to the other end.

"Yes," he agreed with the caller, "No, he's here now. Yeah, I'll let him know. Cheers." He hung up and looked up at his boss, reaching out for his mug with long slender fingers and a broad grin. "Thanks, sir."

Lewis nodded at the phone, wondering who the call was from.

"Front desk, sir. Mrs Blackwall's daughter has arrived, she's waiting in the Relative's Room," the younger man's expression sobered immediately and he took a deep swig of his coffee, before setting it down on the desk regretfully and making a move to stand up.

"Stay and finish your report, James," Lewis suggested, "Then take yourself off for some 'fresh' air and find us a sandwich. This afternoon we'll go back over to the bungalow and find out what's missing." Lewis sighed, talking to relatives was never easy, "I'll not be long."

He found Sarah Blackwall to be in much the state he had imagined he would find her. She was pale, her face devoid of makeup and streaked with the silvery tracks of dried tears. Her chestnut brown curly hair hung limply down her face, leaving her looking drawn and pale. Lewis' heart immediately went out to her in sympathy.

The identification was a quick process, there would be time later for her to view her mother's body, alone and unhindered by his presence. A quick nod of confirmation was all he required at this point following which he ushered her into an interview room for, as he put it, a cup of tea and a quick chat.

"It's just routine," he reassured her, as he passed her a cup of hot sweet tea, "then if your up to it we need to take you over to your mother's house to establish what, if anything, is missing."

"You think she was robbed?" Sarah asked, her voice quiet and tremulous.

Lewis nodded sombrely.

"It's certainly a possibility, at this point in time. Are you aware of anything she would have had of value?"

Sarah paused in thought for a long moment, reaching almost absentmindedly for a tissue.

"She'd just bought a new TV," she commented after a long moment, "said if all she was going to do was watch TV all day she may as well do it in style," she laughed, a hollow, empty, grief filled sound, "and she had a few bits of jewellery but she kept them hidden away."

Tears had begun to fall down her cheeks in earnest and Lewis' heart ached in both sympathy and remembered grief.

"Did she have any enemies, that you know of?"

The younger woman, probably only a few years older than Hathaway, looked at him askance.

"Enemies? Inspector, my mother was eighty six years old! Apart from pottering in the garden she left her house once a week with me to go to the local supermarket. So no, apart from the occasional disagreement over politics with Mrs Banford from across the road, I wouldn't have said she had any enemies."

Lewis, smiled softly and apologetically.

"I understand, I'm sorry but I had to ask, routine you know. Now, once you've finished your cup of tea, if you're up to it, my sergeant will drive us over to your mother's house."

She nodded, balling a tissue up angrily in one fist.

"That's fine. My ex-husband has the girls after school tonight anyway so I am, as they say, at your disposal."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The officers' second visit to Mrs Blackwall's property offered none of the jesting of the first; Lewis gently led Sarah round the property seeking out missing items, while Sergeant Hathaway trailed behind like a discrete shadow noting down missing items in his ever present pocket notebook in his neat script. Occasionally he would ask for clarification or a further description of an item but other than that, conversation was kept to a minimum.

The absence of some objects, like the television and accompanying DVD player were easy to note, and suggested the use of a vehicle in the robbery; others, like the old lady's watch took much longer and a great deal of searching to identify as missing. The more valuable jewellery that Mrs Blackwall kept in a locked box in her wardrobe remained intact, much to the relief of her daughter, and all in all it seemed that not a great deal was missing. The whole, almost tortuous process, took little more than an hour, after which Sarah Blackwall left to collect her children, leaving the two gentlemen to consider the case back at the office.

Hathaway angrily tapped his pen against the list of missing items, as he trawled laboriously through online lists of items for sale in the Oxfordshire area, searching for matches to the stolen goods. So far, he had had no luck, and was considering widening his search area to include London. A trawl through the local CCTV had revealed no coverage of the specific street in question – and provided him with a mere seventy four cars in roughly the same area at around the time of the murder.

Frustrated he threw his pen to the desk, subconsciously rubbing the back of his head with one hand, a clear indicator of his annoyance to anyone that knew him well; including Inspector Lewis as he passed through the door, post mortem report in hand.

"All right?" Lewis asked, peering at Hathaway's screen over the younger man's shoulder.

"No luck, sir," James sighed, pushing his chair away from the desk and swivelling to face his boss, his face set in an expressionless mask, "I've tried every source I can think of but I can't find anything."

Lewis rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder for a brief moment.

"Leave it for tonight, eh James? They might be waiting for the fuss to die down before they try and sell the goods."

Hathaway nodded slowly in agreement.

"It was no go on the vehicle either, sir," he admitted, staring fixedly at his shoes, "I couldn't get close enough on the traffic cameras to narrow down to a sensible number to search. And there's no guarantee that I didn't miss him, or he came in by a route I didn't expect."

"Alright," Lewis sighed, "I don't think there's anything more we can do tonight. Have you eaten?"

Hathaway shook his head, "Not really hungry sir."

"Come on Jim, I'll shout you some fish and chips and you can tell me what's bothering you."

James shook his head.

"Don't know what you mean sir."

Lewis sighed, he was fairly sure he knew what was bothering the young man, there was a good chance that it was the same thing that was bothering him.

"Well, in that case, I'll tell you what's bothering me and I'll even still shout you the fish and chips. How about that?"

Hathaway nodded again, this time with the faintest glimmer of a smile and reached across to grab his coat.

"Sorry, sir," he apologised as they walked out of the station together into the crisp winter air, "It just bothers me."

Lewis opted not to say anything, choosing instead to give the blond man the time and space to say what he needed to say. After a long moment, the sergeant continued.

"I mean, she was an old lady, couldn't hurt a fly, all the neighbours like her and she gets killed. And worse than that, she gets killed for a TV, a watch and a few knick knacks. And it makes me think, is that all a human life is worth to some people? If it is, then that makes me really angry."

He kicked out aimlessly at a tin can on the ground sending it rattling across the pavement, reminding Lewis for a moment of his son when he was a teenager. He wanted to say something to help, something to explain away the callous behaviour of some of the human race, before he realised there really was only one thing he could say.

"I know, lad. I know."

In sombre silence the two men continued their walk.

The next afternoon showed little progress on the case. Hathaway was out of the office for the day having been called to court in nearby Bicester to give evidence on a recent violent assault case. This had left Lewis repeating the searches the sergeant had run yesterday in the hope that the thieves had listed the stolen items for sale online. By six o'clock he was ready to call it a night, and was on his way out to the car when his desk phone rang.

Hathaway had spent the majority of the day sat in a waiting room drinking appalling coffee from a machine in the corner, all for a brief, half hour appearance to confirm the details of the report he had submitted to the court. By half past five he was starting his drive home, grumbling at the early darkness and the driving rain which stung his skin like needles on the walk from the courtroom to the car.

By the time he drove into the north of Oxford into Summertown the rain was approaching torrential, and the windscreen wipers were struggling to keep up. He slowed down, to combat the terrible visibility, but even at a crawl he almost missed the overturned bicycle in the ditch, and the young woman lying beside it.

Cursing, he screeched to halt and leapt out of the car, reaching in his jacket pocket for his phone, dialling for an ambulance and police support almost on instinct. The rain plastered his hair to his skull in seconds, and he could barely feel the unconscious cyclist's pulse with hands trembling with shock and cold. Shrugging out of his jacket he laid it over her prostrate form and found himself wishing he remembered more basic first aid. He was sure she had a pulse, that she was breathing, but unsure of her injuries and his abilities he decided he would be safer not to move her and to await the ambulance he had called.

It seemed a long time before the quiet stretch of road was lit up by the reassuring, strobing blue lights of first an ambulance then two squad cars. Hathaway found himself shouldered away from the girl's side by two paramedics who bombarded him with questions.

"Any idea what happened?"

"No," he confirmed, "found her lying by the road. Her bicycle shows some damage, I think perhaps she's been the victim of a hit and run."

"Has she been conscious at all?"

"No."

"Do you know who she is?"

"No, I..."

The paramedics nodded and got back to work, bundling the girl into the warmth and safety of the ambulance, leaving Hathaway drenched and frozen in the presence of one of the attending police constables, while the other worked to secure the road.

"Sir?" the constable approached him, "Are you able to answer a few questions?" At his answering nod, the younger man approached him, almost warily.

"You say you found the girl by the road?"

"Correct."

"Did you see any other vehicles sir?"

He shrugged, trying to think back.

"I've seen some lights going the other way, but no one driving recklessly and I wouldn't be able to tell you what kind of cars they were."

The policeman's face became stern.

"And if I were to go to look, would I find any damage to your car sir?"

Hathaway rolled his eyes, and shivering, led the way to the front of his car.

"No you would not," he pointed out, as the constable checked the car thoroughly by torchlight, "I suggest you get the bike to SOCO, see if they can narrow down to a colour with any paint residue. Then someone will be able to check the traffic cameras for a match."

The constable turned to stare at him, in surprise, that turned rapidly to embarrassment when Hathaway flashed his ID.

"Sir...I'm so sorry..." The mumbling apologies were cut off by a shout, from a figure wrapped in a large raincoat ducking under the crime scene ribbons.

"Hathaway!"

The tall man spun round, surprised to hear the distinctive accent of Inspector Lewis calling him.

"Sir! How did you...?"

Lewis was appalled at the sight of his sergeant, standing out in the rain, wearing nothing but his shirt, looking pale and shocked in the car headlights. He crossed quickly to his side, concern written all over his face.

"Got a call from dispatch that a Sergeant Hathaway had reported a possible hit and run in, and did I think it could be you? So I thought I'd drive out and check. Christ man, you must be frozen!"

Hathaway nodded, teeth chattering as the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving him chilled to the bone. Lewis turned almost angrily to the young constable.

"I'm taking DS Hathaway home," he told him, his tone brooking no argument, "If you have any further questions I'm sure he'll have no problem answering them at the station. Isn't that right Jim?"

Hathaway nodded at the stammering constable, as kindly as he could manage in his frozen state.

"Sorry sir, of course. We'll get SOCO out to look at the bike," guilt at keeping his senior officer freezing outside was clearly now worrying at the young man, "We can have someone bring the sergeant's car back to the station if you like sir?"

"Thank you constable," Lewis softened considerably, "if this turns out to be a Hit and Run we'll liaise with Traffic Investigation back at the office." He turned to Hathaway, "In the meantime sergeant, let's find you a towel."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to everyone who is reading this. Your comments mean a lot and are spurring me one to keep writing. This chapter is important to the story, but not very long or too exciting. Hopefully in the next few chapters things should all come together nicely – if all goes to plan!

Chapter Five

Sergeant Hathaway had said very little in the car, simply apologised for dripping on the seats; for the remainder of the journey he had stared, unseeing out of the front window, moving only to adjust the heating.

Now Lewis sat in the younger man's immaculately kept living room enjoying a cup of coffee, while Hathaway showered and changed. The inspector was always amazed by eclectic collection of items his friend owned, there was a chess board on the table, _the_ guitar propped in the corner, a stack of books on a huge range of topics and music ranging from some tiny indie group to a madrigals compilation. It was the sort of room that you could sit in for hours without a moment of boredom and by the end of the time still know nothing at all personal about the inhabitant. It was James Hathaway all over.

The peace was shattered by the insistent ringing of Lewis' mobile, and he was struck with an overwhelming premonition that nothing good would come of answering the phone.

"Lewis."

He was unsurprised to hear the voice of one of the detective constables on the other end.

"Sorry to disturb you sir. DCI Innocent asked me to let you know that Rachel Emmerson, the girl from the hit and run this evening has just died in hospital. She'd like you and Detective Hathaway to work with traffic on this one."

"Aye, alright," Lewis agreed, "We'll be in shortly."

"She's asked me to pull the CCTV for that stretch of road; she wants the sarge to have a look over it."

"Fine. Have we had anything back from the lab yet?"

"Just that it was a red car, sir."

"Ok, that gives us a start anyway. Thank you constable."

"You're welcome. Goodnight sir."

Hathaway appeared at that moment, dressed for once not in a suit but jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, a towel draped over his shoulders. His towel dried, dark blond hair stood up in unruly spikes and he looked like anyone his age about to embark on a night out. The casual dress reminded Lewis immediately of how young his sergeant truly was.

"What's happened?" he asked without preamble, recognising all too well the look on his boss's face.

"That was the station," Lewis began gently; knowing instinctively what was coming Hathaway dropped onto the sofa.

"She died, didn't she?"

"I'm sorry, James."

Hathaway dropped his head into his hands for a long moment, before looking up and meeting his Inspector's worried gaze.

"It's alright, sir. I didn't even know her. I just... I really hoped she'd be ok." He sighed, deeply before slowly rising to his feet. "Did I hear they want us back at the office? I'd better get changed."

"You're alright Hathaway, the Super just wanted you to look through some CCTV don't need to be suited and booted for that."

With a reluctant nod, Hathaway acquiesced, leading the way back out into the rain.

Two hours later and the office was deserted apart from Hathaway and Lewis. DCI Innocent had left half an hour earlier, having popped in ostensibly to clarify her request, though Lewis suspected it was more to do with ensuring that they were fully aware that the girl who had been killed was the daughter of Sir Emmerson, one of the Masters of one of the more prominent colleges in Oxford.

Hathaway sat hunched at his desk scrolling through what seemed to be hours of footage from endless traffic cameras on the Banbury Road. Lewis, unwilling to leave the young man to it was purporting to be researching the Emmerson family in case there was a need to speak to them in the morning.

"Gotcha!"

Had the office been fully occupied, Lewis doubted whether he would have heard the soft expression of accomplishment from Hathaway. As the office was all but silent, it carried across the office startling him into alertness.

"What have you got Sergeant?" he crossed the office and leaned over to observe the monitor.

"Well, sir," Hathaway tapped at a few keys and paused the video, "Here, this is the camera just before the accident site, and here's a red car going past. Now unfortunately the accident site isn't covered by the camera, but here we go," he spooled the video forward, "there I am going through. Now, obviously that doesn't prove anything but," he clicked a few more buttons to open another video stream, "this is from the next set of cameras, and here is the same red car going through, but..."

Lewis saw immediately what he was getting at.

"It's got a headlight out."

Hathaway nodded.

"Exactly. In the space of a mile, they've lost a headlight. So I can't be sure, but I think that," he tapped at the car on the screen with his pen, "is where we should start."

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder in appreciation.

"Good work Hathaway."

Hathaway, shrugged modestly.

"Thanks sir."

He opened a new programme and type industriously for a few moments.

"I've got a match on the registration plate," he commented after a minute, "Its... well this is odd..."

"What's odd?"

"That car, according to this is registered to a Sarah Blackwall, at an address in Summertown."

Lewis brow furrowed as he tried to place the familiar name.

"Sarah Blackwall? As in the robbery victim's daughter?"

Hathaway grabbed a file from a stack on his desk, comparing the two addresses before him.

"Yes sir." He confirmed after a moment, "How unlucky can one person be?"

"Well, you know what they say sergeant," Lewis commented, stunned by the discovery.

"No sir. I don't care what they say. No luck like this should come in threes."

"Let's hope not, Jim."


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you again for all the lovely comments! We're almost on the downhill now, but there's still a few more twists and turns to come in the next couple of chapters. I'm sorry that there's not too much of Lewis and Hathaway in this one, but I had to move the plot on a bit, so they had to get out of the office and do some detecting. If it helps I'm pretty sure they're due a pub trip/coffee/smoke break soon!

Chapter Six

The next morning the sun didn't so much rise in Oxford as struggle pitifully from behind a thick blanket of cloud. Neither Hathaway nor Lewis had got much sleep the night before which showed in their pale faces, quiet voices and frayed tempers. Fortunately, years of working together had taught them both a degree of tolerance and understanding which helped them not to drive each other mad during their early morning starts. The fact that Hathaway arrived to collect Lewis bearing both strong coffee and bacon sandwiches helped to go a long way towards restoring their usual affable moods.

By the time they arrived on Sarah Blackwall's doorstep in Summertown it was barely half past eight. The previous night's torrential rain had finally abated, leaving behind a sullen misty greyness that seemed to cling to everything. Before they even knocked at the door they couldn't fail to notice the red ford parked on the road outside the house, the damage to the bonnet and front light clearly visible. Ever efficient, Hathaway was immediately on the phone to the Accident Investigation Department, organising for one of their technicians to attend the property and seek for the evidence that would unquestionably link the vehicle to the tragic death of Rachel Emmerson.

It fell to Lewis to ring the doorbell, his expression as sombre as the morning's weather. Ms Blackwall answered the door promptly, still wearing her pyjamas and a thick towelling dressing gown. The sounds of small children playing drifted through the house, reminding the Inspector of long ago Christmases.

"Inspector Lewis?" her surprise was evident in her widened green eyes, "has there been some progress in my mother's case?"

"No," Lewis spoke carefully. He was aware of Hathaway's solid presence at his customary spot on his right hand side, although he hadn't heard the taller man approach. "Actually we wanted to know where you were between six and seven o clock yesterday evening?"

Her brow furrowed, deeply, before she answered the question she turned and pulled a door to her right closed muffling the sounds of the children.

"I was walking the dog in the local park," she answered, "can I ask why?"

Hathaway was once again intently writing in his notebook.

"Can anyone verify that?" he asked, without looking up. Lewis on the other hand, continued to watch the expression on Sarah's face. He saw the confusion melt away and be replaced by irritation.

"No. The children were with their father last night, and what with all the rain last night there wasn't that many people about," her voice hardened, "Now, what is this about?"

Hathaway with urbane calm, and a blank expression ignored her rising irritation.

"Does anyone else have access to your car?"

"No," the enforced calm in her voice was evident, "unless you consider my six year old child capable of driving? The children are the only people who would have been able to get the keys."

"No one else has a spare key to your house?"

"My mother did, but I doubt she was using the car either. Now I will ask you again, what is this about?"

Lewis stepped in again, lowering the tone of his voice in contrast to her escalating anger.

"We have reason to believe that your vehicle was involved in a hit and run accident on the Banbury Road last night in which a young cyclist was killed."

"My vehicle?" she was frightened and bewildered now, they could hear it in her voice, but whether it was a sign of guilt or not was hard to tell. "My car's out there on the street, I haven't driven since yesterday afternoon and it was fine then."

Again Hathaway stepped forward; Lewis was happy to let him, his unflappability generally had one of two effects on suspects. Occasionally they seemed to take great exception to him and refused to say anything, but for some reason more often than not people seemed to find them telling him everything, just to get a reaction out of him. At times like that Lewis was thankful he hadn't remained in the seminary, partly because it made him a fantastic partner but mostly because he'd have been terrifying in a confessional.

"So you are unaware of the damage to the passenger side headlight?"

"What..." she stepped out of the house and stalked to the front of the car, "I have no idea how that happened! The car was fine yesterday – maybe somebody hit it while it was parked on the street?"

Hathaway raised one eyebrow, his expression unchanged.

"It's possible," he conceded, his voice dry and illustrating exactly what he thought of that possibility.

"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to come to the station and answer a few more questions," Lewis gently led her back to house, "Is there someone who can take care of the children?"

It was the mention of her children that did it. Suddenly the woman went from being angry and upset to simply terrified. Tears slipped unheeded down her face.

"Oh god," she sobbed, "I don't understand how this has happened. I haven't been near the car! Please, you have to help me."

"Is there someone I can call to collect the children?" Hathaway asked softly, "then we can sort this all out down at the station?"

"Richard, my ex-husband should be able to take them, his number is by the phone in the house."

Hathaway nodded and disappeared inside. Sarah turned to Lewis.

"Can I get dressed, or do we need to go right now?"

"Get changed," he said, kindly. "Then we'll wait until Richard arrives. No sense in upsetting the children is there?"

Richard Thompson arrived forty five minutes later to be met at the door by Sergeant Hathaway. His face was concerned but he smiled happily enough at the tall detective and held his hand out in greeting.

"I'm Richard Thompson, here for the children?"

"Yes, sir. Can I just ask you a couple of questions first?"

"Of course, anything to help."

"You had the children last night, is that correct?"

"Yes," the man confirmed, "It was the last day of term at their school so I picked them up after that. They came back to my house, I live about five minutes away," he gestured, non specifically, "and I brought them back round at about nine."

"And did Ms Blackwall mention going out at all?"

The man ran a hand through greying hair, in thought.

"She said she'd got soaked walking the dog but otherwise she'd been getting ready for Christmas," he grinned, "hard to play Santa with two children under the age of eight."

Hathaway smiled thinly but made no comment.

"And you didn't notice any damage to her car at all?"

The man looked confused and peered at the car.

"It's damaged? No I didn't notice, but I came from that way," he indicated, "both last night and just now so I only saw the back of it."

"Thank you sir. One last question?"

"Of course."

"Do you have a key to this property?"

The man shook his head emphatically.

"No. I returned it when we separated. I have no need of it, she's usually around if the kids forget something." He glanced at his watch, "if that's all, am I ok to take the kids? I don't get a lot of time with them at Christmas, so I thought I would take their mind of their mum by visiting the Santa grotto."

Hathaway nodded.

"Must be hard being away from them at Christmas," he commented, as he allowed the man into the property.

"Oh I see them plenty," he smiled, a little sadly, "but when they're your kids you always want that bit more time with them, before they're all grown up."

The sergeant said nothing, merely led the way into the living room.

"Daddy!" the two girls ran and flung their arms around him.

"Hello darlings," he crouched down to hug them, casting a quick, reassuring smile at their mother, "Now you've got jim jams at my house haven't you? So run and get your coats, we're going to see Santa this afternoon."

Much excited squealing greeted this statement, and the two girls scampered off in a flurry of animated giggling. After they had left Richard took Sarah's hand reassuringly.

"I'm not sure what's going on," he said, casting a pointed look at the two detectives, "but I'm sure it will be all sorted out soon, in the meantime, if you need anything at all, give me a ring, ok?"

She nodded wordlessly, gripping at his hand for reassurance, before standing up.

"Come on then Inspector, let's get this over with."


	7. Chapter 7

A slightly shorter one but its where a good natural chapter break fell I'm afraid. The good (I hope its good) news is that I am trying very hard to get this all wrapped up (excuse the pun) before I go to relatives for Christmas. The epilogue is already written, so I just have to get us there! This means that there might be multiple updates a day, as I'll upload as I finish.

The bad news is that I have a slight crisis of confidence in the ending – but I'm just going to stick with it as the foundations are too well laid to write around now!

Chapter Seven

By the evening it was beginning to feel as though they were making very little progress. Sarah Blackwall continued to vehemently deny even having driven the car on the previous evening and yet was still unable to explain the presence of her car on the CCTV or how exactly the vehicle had become damaged. Lewis had the dizzy feeling that came of spending the majority of the afternoon going around in distressingly similar circles. Unfortunately, until the Investigation Unit released their report and they could definitively prove that her car was responsible for the hit and run they had no excuse but to release her with a strong caution not to leave the area.

The two officers, tired and frustrated after a day of achieving nothing had spent the evening staring blankly at Lewis' television with a bottle of beer in hand, cursing the slowness of the lab.

"Do they have no concept of hurrying up?" Lewis sighed miserably.

"I did ring them," Hathaway commented, "I'm sure that 'Now That's What I Call Christmas' is encouraging them to new heights of efficient work practices."

"Did you tell them it was urgent?" Lewis asked, already knowing the answer.

"I did. They called me Scrooge," Hathaway sounded almost affronted by that, "then told me the old one about how they would get more work done if I stopped ringing."

"It's all machines down there isn't it?" asked Lewis, vaguely remembering a trip into the bowels of the station once to seek out another missing report.

"I did point that out to them." Hathaway observed, taking a swig of his beer.

"What did they say to that?"

"Nothing repeatable. Then they hung up."

They lapsed back into silence, Hathaway stifling a huge yawn with the back of his hand, that Lewis couldn't fail to notice.

"Go on," Lewis ordered the younger man, "Away to bed with you Jim, you look done in."

Hathaway didn't argue, which went a long way towards proving just how tired he really was. Yawning again he stretched his arms high above his head with a groan before standing up.

"Sorry, sir. It's been a long few days."

"Aye I know, and you're meant to be the young one. Now off to bed."

Hathaway couldn't suppress a cheeky grin.

"Yes dad."

"Go'on away with you!" Lewis repeated himself, but still found himself smiling, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Lewis was woken up less than an hour later by the shrill, insistent ringing of his phone. Without even glancing at the caller display, he knew whose slightly apologetic voice he would hear at the other end.

"Lewis?" he grumbled.

"Sorry, sir," Hathaway did indeed sound an interesting combination of both irritated, apologetic but mostly, to his senior's surprise – he sounded deeply confused.

"Can it wait, Hathaway?" Lewis didn't know why he asked the question, the fact that Hathaway had even called meant of course that it could not, and yet he lived in the fervent hope that one day he would not have to drag himself out of bed into the frosty Oxfordshire night.

"Well, they aren't going anywhere," Hathaway mused, "but I suspect Doctor Hobson would not be too impressed with us sir."

"True," the thought of an irate Laura was not one he wanted to consider too closely, "a suspicious death then is it?"

"Yes sir," Hathaway still sounded confused, which in turn was confusing Lewis.

"What's bothering you Sergeant?" There was a long pause.

"Well sir, you're never going to believe this," Hathaway appeared distinctly like he didn't, but an ominous faint flicker of suspicion was kindling in the back of the Inspector's mind.

"Go on," he said warily.

"Uniform had a potential ID on the victim when they called me. Sir, its Sarah Blackwall. They thought it was a suicide but the Doctor is on the scene and apparently there is some kind of doubt. I'm entirely sure what."

Although his suspicion had indeed been proved correct, Lewis still found himself astonished by the revelation.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me," he exploded, regretting his sharp tone and cursing immediately. It certainly wasn't Hathaway's fault.

The tone of Hathaway's voice suggested he could quite cheerfully start cursing himself.

"You did say it came in threes, sir. I'll pick you up in ten minutes."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The quiet suburban calm of Summertown had been shattered by a sudden influx of several patrol cars all with flashing neon blue lights lighting up the darkness. Uniformed officers were scurrying around like dark ants knocking on doors and waking irate neighbours from sleep to take down statements that in all likelihood would provide little to no useful information.

Hathaway and Lewis stood like an island in the eye of a storm, observing for a long moment all that was going on around them, until a young PC, still fresh enough out of training to be exuberant about being out in the cold in the middle of the night bounded up to them, scene suits in hand.

They entered the property and spent an undignified couple of minutes trying to struggle into the all in one suits, with as much grace as they could muster. The suits were a definite case of "one size fitting no-one" and while a reasonable amount of material bunched around Lewis' wrists and ankles, Hathaway was left with a ridiculous amount of suit arm and leg sticking out of the suit cuffs.

Rolling their eyes at each other they made their way back into the property's kitchen which is where they found Laura Hobson crouched by a body slumped haphazardly over the kitchen table that was coated in an ominous layer of blood, so dark it almost appeared black. It was unmistakably the young woman they had questioned earlier and Hathaway bowed his head for a moment respectfully, until a sudden thought occurred to him and his head jerked up to pin the nearest constable with a sharp stare.

"Her children aren't here are they?" he asked, a hard edge to his normally mellow voice.

"No sir," she replied promptly, "they're staying with their father. He's been informed."

He nodded, but was cut off from any reply by Hobson, who had been alerted to their arrival by the sound of his familiar voice.

"Evening, gents," she greeted with a smile that belied the grumpiness in her tone, "or should that be morning?"

"It should be bed time, I can tell you that for nothing," Lewis replied sourly.

She shook her head in admonishment and beckoned him over.

"Now, this was reported by the neighbour a little while ago. She'd arranged to pop round and collect a parcel on the way back from a party. Got no reply on knocking so came round to try the back door and saw Ms Blackwall through the window, knife on the table, lots of blood."

"So are we talking suicide?" Lewis asked, hoping that he hadn't been called out of bed for nothing, "there's potential cause, she was implicated in a fatal hit and run and questioned this afternoon."

Hobson was already shaking her head.

"No, afraid not," she straightened and shifted to allow then both an unrestricted view of the woman's wounds, "see here," she pointed at the cuts, "at first glance they appear self inflicted, but then," she turned the hands over carefully, revealing bruise marks over the back of both wrists, "this sort of marking is consistent with being restrained. There's also evidence that she's being gagged, and," she lifted up the woman's thick brown curls to reveal a bruise under the hair, "she's been knocked over the head, if I had to guess I'd say probably not enough to keep her unconscious for any length of time but certainly enough to leave her dazed. Which is probably when the assailant had time to tie her up."

She looked from one detective to the other, assessing how well they had followed her explanation. The both nodded, though Hathaway, as she expected, had more questions.

"Were the cuts inflicted by this knife?" he asked, indicating the one on the table.

"No reason to suspect not, it's certainly consistent with the wounds but I'll be able to be more certain after the PM tomorrow." He nodded.

"Would..." he paused, looking a little sickened by his own question, "Would it have taken long to die like that?"

She shook her head, smiling gentle, comforting smile at him. Sometimes with his solid presence at a scene it was easy to forget that Hathaway was still young. She had become hardened to the violence she saw day in and day out, but his eyes still swum with compassion for every victim; mind you so did Robert Lewis', no doubt that was why they ran themselves into the ground trying to solve cases so many other teams would have labelled unsolvable.

"No. Almost certainly not, the cuts have been made vertically rather than horizontally, and probably between two and four hours ago. "

He was looking down now, staring unnaturally hard at the floor.

"Are you alright sergeant?" she asked worriedly, he had looked a bit pale but she'd put that down the late night.

"Yeah," he murmured, distractedly, "I'm fine. Sir, there's a bit of a boot print in the blood by your foot."

Lewis looked down, sure enough, the distinct printing of a boot toe was clearly visible in the pool of tacky, almost dried blood. He measured it against the size of his own shoe, it was clearly bigger, more the size of Hathaway's flipper like feet.

"Probably a man," he surmised, "which rules out half the population."

"Fifty five percent," corrected Hathaway, "or so you told me once."

Lewis had dim recollections of the conversation but as it had been a good few years ago now he couldn't swear to it. He looked the tall man up and down.

"Where do you store all this stuff, Hathaway? Your brain's like a bloody sponge."

Hathaway shrugged, and resumed instructed a Crime Scene Investigator to photograph the partial imprint. Lewis turned to the pathologist who had turned back to her own examination of the crime scene.

"Laura, if God forbid, anything ever happens to Sergeant Hathaway can you do me a favour and have a look inside – see where it is that he hides all this random trivia?"

She nodded, without even looking up.

"See if you can get him to donate his brain to medical science," she quipped, "then I can have a good old poke around, get all the expensive toys out."

Hathaway said nothing, just shook his head tolerantly and went on with his work.

An hour later the crime scene had revealed precious little further information. Miss Sand, who had discovered the body had seen nothing and could think of no one who would wish Sarah any harm. The only thing she had been concerned about, she had reported, was the Police investigation into the hit and run.

"Could it have been a revenge killing?" asked Hathaway, thoughtfully.

Lewis sighed deeply as he considered the possibility.

"Could be," he surmised, "But we've not released any details to anyone, certainly not any names. I know the Super knows the family but she's not going to just blurt out accusations willy nilly. No," he paused, "there's something more here. Something, tying all this mess together somehow."

"Maybe it'll make more sense in the morning," Hathaway suggested, "We're going to need to talk to the ex-husband but we can't do that now."

"No," Lewis agreed, "Not fair on the kids, come on then. Let's see if the morning sheds any light on it all."

He led the way out to the car, and waved cheerily to Hobson who was speedily returning her equipment to the back of her silver hatchback.

"See you tomorrow," she called softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping street. He nodded and settled himself in the passenger car, grateful in his sleepy state that it was Hathaway who would negotiate the dark, icy streets.


	9. Chapter 9

Gosh, I hope these chapters are still ok! I really really want to get this out before Christmas, and I'm reckoning on three more chapters. So it's looking very promising, real life allowing of course!

Chapter Nine

Clouds had given way to clear blue skies and crisp ice underfoot but even that did little to shed any light on the case or on any connection between the three deaths. Hathaway, always an earlier riser, was in work before many others in the department, including Inspector Lewis. Devoid of inspiration for how to proceed with the investigation into the deaths he wrestled a large whiteboard into the shared office to make a start on writing down what it is that they did know. He found that organising things, giving them a structure helped him to see the connections he might otherwise miss.

It was there that Lewis found him on his arrival, chewing absentmindedly on the end of a marker pen, staring intently at smiling photographs of now dead women.

"Moved up from tobacco to solvents, have we James?" he asked, as he walked through the door. Hathaway jumped and flushed, he'd been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Lewis' approach, let alone the fact he wasn't just chewing on a pen but was also holding it like an overgrown cigarette.

"Just trying to put together the pieces sir," he put down the pen and rested his chin in his hand instead, "it's obvious that Sarah Blackwall is the link; her mother, her car, her. It's..." he trailed off deep in thought again.

Lewis recognised the expression on his face from countless other investigations. It was the look Hathaway got when he'd had a hunch about something but had then suffered a crisis of confidence about expressing it because he lacked any firm evidence to back it up. However, their long association had taught Lewis to persuade Hathaway to share these musings, because while they may not always be right, they often provided the chink that let them crack open the whole case.

"Go on lad," he encouraged, "What are you thinking?"

Hathaway shifted, so that he was stood directly in front of the board, blocking it entirely from Lewis' sight. He fiddled around with the photographs he had stuck on their earlier, arranging them in a step wise fashion: first the elderly Mrs Blackwall towards the bottom left corner, then Rachel Emmerson above and to the right of her, and finally Sarah Blackwall in the top right corner.

He stepped back again, to allow Lewis a clear view.

"Well," he began, somewhat hesitantly, "I don't know why but for a minute it almost seemed to me like someone is upping the ante."

"Go on," Lewis encouraged, his face serious. Before Hathaway could continue DCI Innocent had stuck her head through the office door.

"How's it going?" she asked in her usual brusque fashion.

"Slowly, ma'am," Lewis confirmed reluctantly.

"I heard about the death last night, definitely not suicide?"

"Afraid not Ma'am," Hathaway replied, "That would have almost made some kind of sense."

"We'll figure it out," Lewis asserted, as much to reassure his Sergeant as his boss, "We always do in the end."

Innocent nodded and turned to leave the office, half way out she spun round, piercing Inspector Lewis with an eagle-eyed glare.

"Inspector you haven't forgotten there's a budget meeting this morning have you?"

He looked so outraged that Hathaway had to work astoundingly hard to stifle a smirk.

"Ma'am, I'm in the middle of a murder enquiry!"

"Yes," she retaliated as she left, "And as you're so fond of telling me, Sergeant Hathaway is an extremely competent detective who does not require his hand to be held by you for the single hour for which I require the pleasure of your company." She shut the door behind her with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary.

At that Hathaway couldn't help but look a little bit smug, which earned him an angry glare from Lewis.

"Come on, deflate that ego and get your brain back in gear. What were you saying? Something about 'upping the ante'?"

Hathaway's face immediately turned serious. Lewis had always appreciated that about his sergeant, he knew when to make a joke, had the makings of a damn good sense of humour sometimes, but equally importantly, he knew when to stop and get back to the work in hand.

"Yes sir, as I was saying it all has to be linked to Sarah Blackwall. I mean her mother's murder could be a coincidence, and I suppose her covering up a hit and run could be too, she's upset, her mum dies, she's not thinking straight... It's just... it's a few too many coincidences for my liking. No one is that unlucky."

Lewis couldn't help but agree.

"So you think what?"

"Well, its a long shot sir."

"This is Oxford, Hathaway. Haven't you noticed that 90 percent of our cases seem to deal solely in long shots?"

"Well, what if someone was trying to... unsettle her? Take her off the scene for something? I'm not sure what, though. But, they stage a burglary at her Mum's, or perhaps they even need to do that to get the spare key for the house, then they try to have her arrested by framing her in a hit and run. But then we release her, so the only thing they can think of to get rid of her is..."

"To murder her?"

"Sorry sir," Hathaway looked somewhat abashed, "I said it was a bit of a strange idea."

"We've had stranger ones, lad," Lewis pointed out bluntly. The blond man nodded, relieved that Lewis didn't seem to think he was crazy. He appreciated that in his guv'nor; too many of them seemed to think that his role was merely to sift information and read reports, and leave any ideas about 'detecting' to them. It was why, all those years ago he'd offered Lewis first refusal of his services, and why he'd never come to regret the decision. Hathaway's loyalty was something that, in his eyes, Lewis had earned a thousand times over.

Lewis pondered the case for a moment before coming to a decision.

"Why don't you go and have a quiet word with the ex-husband, see if he has any ideas about enemies, debts, family politics, that sort of thing while I'm in this damn meeting. Oh and while you're at it see if their divorce really was as happy-as-larry as they made out will you?"

Hathaway nodded, and grabbed his jacket and car keys, halfway out of the door Lewis' voice stopped him for a moment.

"Oh and Hathaway?"

"Sir?"

"Stay out of mischief while I'm not there to hold your hand, eh?"

"I'll do my upmost sir."


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you to everyone who continues to read this. We're at the point of this story where I had a crisis of confidence very similar to Hathaway's, but I am notoriously poor at finishing multi-chapter fics so for good or ill I have pressed on. Right, I'll leave you to read – I have two more chapters to type up and an epilogue to post before my self imposed deadline of 5pm GMT!

Chapter Ten

Hathaway pulled his blue Vauxhall out into the Banbury Road into a steady stream of traffic. He found himself wondering where they were all going – no doubt some were going to do their Christmas shopping, he'd managed to avoid that this year thanks to the internet, a saviour for all those with slightly irregular working hours. Fortunately, he hadn't got many people to buy for anyway; Hobson was easy to please with a bottle of wine and a nice box of chocolates, the same went for Innocent, a collection of unusual CDs went a long way to pleasing the lads in the band which left Lewis as his trickiest customer.

He'd puzzled over him for hours, shopping already not one of Hathaway's many talents. He had dismissed a book on Newcastle United as too boring, a crate of beer as too predictable, and a variety of other gifts as too impractical. Lewis always seemed to be considering new hobbies though, and when he saw a sign in The Trout offering a special offer fly fishing lesson with a meal at the pub afterwards he bought it on impulse, and was now resigned to wondering whether or not is was a good idea until he'd seen whether his boss liked it.

The drive to Summertown was a short one and it wasn't long before he found himself in front of the scene of last night's murder. More from curiosity than any sense of wrong doing he decided to park there and walk to Mr Thompson's property, to see how far apart the separated couple actually lived. It was a bare five minutes with his long legged stride; clearly an amicable separation then.

Mr Thompson's house was larger than Ms Blackwall's; a garage attached to the side of the property and clearly the original family home. The curtains were open and a large twinkling Christmas tree took up a large section of the living room bay window. Hathaway smiled at the incongruous decorations – shop bought delicate crystal decorations sat smartly alongside homemade, glitter festooned creations.

Hathaway knocked firmly at the scarlet front door and was rewarded by the scampering feet of small children running through the hallway, squealing excitedly.

"Daddy! Is it Santa, Daddy?"

Hathaway couldn't help but smile as a long-suffering voice answered, clearly audible.

"No, it's not Christmas yet, and anyway where does Santa Claus come?"

"Down the chimney!" there was another flurry of giggling, amplified as the door opened.

"Oh, hello Sergeant, come in," Richard Thompson held the door open to let the tall detective past, "girls, go and play while Daddy and Mr Hathaway have a talk."

Two small, blonde girls, wearing what appeared to by fairy wings pushed their way eagerly past Hathaway and disappeared through a door towards the back of the hallway, giving James a moment to look round. It seemed as though every inch of available wall space was covered with photographs of the two girls both with and without their father.

"How old are they?" he asked politely, as he regarded the family gallery.

"Emilia is seven," Richard pointed out a photo of the older girl wearing what appeared to be some kind of ballet costume, "and Olivia is five." He selected another photo, this one of a small pumpkin.

"Sweet," Hathaway commented, in the bored tone of voice shared by young childless gentlemen, as he wished Lewis was here to do the family chat.

"Do you want to come into my office?" Richard offered, "Quieter in there, and the girls will knock if they need anything. I'm afraid I haven't long though, we are going ice skating this morning." He led the way into a study filled with yet more photographs and gestured to a seat which Hathaway folded himself into.

"How are they?" Hathaway asked, surprised by how upbeat the children were.

"Ah," their father looked a little embarrassed, "I'm afraid I've just told them their mother is all that the moment. I don't want them to associate Christmas with something as terrible as their Mother's suicide."

"Won't they want to see her?" he asked, curiously.

Richard started to look slightly uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

"They're too young to understand. I've told them she's too poorly to see anyone."

"Mr Thompson," he began, slowly, watching the gentleman before him carefully for any kind of reaction, "Did Ms Blackwall have any enemies that you know of?"

He got a definite response to that, though perhaps not the one he had expected to see when he first arrived, Richard Thompson shuffled awkwardly in his seat, in an almost guilty fashion.

"No," his answer was quick, and almost a little shrill, "she was just very stressed about the car accident understandably, why do you ask?"

"Well, Mr Thompson," Hathaway weighed the odds of mentioning the murder against not, and decided almost immediately that it might prompt a helpful reaction from the man before him, "It appears that she was murdered last night."

There was a long pause, muscles twitched in Thompson's face as though he was trying to decide how he should school his expression appropriately in response to the sergeant's declaration.

"What makes you say that?" he finally asked, looking bewildered.

Hathaway remained a little vague.

"The killer left behind some evidence." He confided in the man, watching sweat break out across his brow.

"That's terrible," there was an air of insincerity in the phrase almost undetectable except to someone who had spent a lot of time talking to liars, "I can't think of anyone who would wish to harm her." He stood up abruptly, "Now I'm sorry Mr Hathaway but as I told you before, we have an appointment to attend."

Hathaway nodded, acceptingly and stood up. He was definite that this man had not behaved at all in the way he would expect, both towards his questioning and towards his children, but he couldn't go charging into an arrest, without some firm evidence to tie Thompson to the crime. For that he needed a search warrant, and some backup.

"I'll see myself out." He didn't mention the possibility of a return as he left, he was concerned that could provoke the man into fleeing somewhere, very probably with his children in tow.

Once the front door had closed behind him he fished hurriedly in his pockets for his mobile, hitting the appropriate speed dial key without even needing to look.

"Hello, this is the voicemail messaging service for Robert Lewis..."

Hathaway sighed in frustration, this is why budget meetings in the middle of murder enquiries were a terrible idea.

"Hello sir, I wondered if you could meet me at the scene, with a warrant for Mr Thompson's house. I have a feeling we might find he owns some..."

Hathaway stopped and hung up abruptly; the cold pressure in his back from the barrel of a small handgun was unmistakeable.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Lewis hated meetings at the best of times, but when there was a murder enquiry on the go, and instead he was kicking his heels listening to some administrator prattling on about the cost of paperclips his distaste for them reached new depths.

A faint vibration in his pocket caught his attention, and he found himself hoping desperately that Hathaway had come up with an effective way to release him from the torment he was in. Discretely he rose from the desk, causing the man talking to stop in the middle of his sentence, his expression affronted.

"Sorry Ma'am," he muttered, wincing at her expression of stern disapproval, he'd be in for it later, "Hathaway. Might be important ma'am."

She didn't argue, just waved him out of the room. Hathaway didn't used to be the type to deliberately bail people out of meetings, but then things had changed since his paring with Lewis, and he'd revealed a hidden troublemaking streak a mile wide.

By the time Lewis had managed to extricate himself from the meeting room the ringing had stopped, and the screen displayed a voicemail message. Lewis cursed, this handset seemed to take it upon itself to hide messages for its own amusement and on more than one occasion he had been forced to rely on his sergeant to locate them.

After a few moments of helpless clicking he finally heard his sergeant's deep voice,

"Hello sir, I wondered if you could meet me at the scene, with a warrant for Mr Thompson's house. I have a feeling we might find he owns some..."

The message ended abruptly – possibly a signal problem, there were some notorious black spots in Oxford, usually wherever Lewis found himself needing to make a phone call. But there was something in the message that made him think twice, the slightly strangled tone in Hathaway's voice in the last couple of words, as though he had just had an unpleasant surprise. It could be nothing, but knowing his Sergeant's talent for trouble he wouldn't, as the old saying went, bet the farm on it. Straightening his shoulders, he went to talk to Innocent.

Hathaway found himself being bundled back into Thompson's office and shoved unceremoniously into a chair, the gun, held in trembling hands, covering his every move.

"People know I'm here," his voice was level, despite his rising unease, "They're expecting me back at the station any minute."

"Liar!" Thompson spat, furious, "You were leaving a voicemail getting someone to meet you. They might not pick that up for hours! Gives me and the girls plenty of time to get away from here."

His eyes were wild with fury, and Hathaway found himself wondering how his first impression of Richard Thompson had been so wide of the mark. He'd been confident then, he supposed, no leads in the killing of his ex-mother in law and his ex-wife about to be arrested and charged, back then it had all been going to plan.

"I can't let you do that," Hathaway told him.

"How are you going to stop me?" Thompson waved the gun, illustrating his point.

"It's not fair on the girls is it Richard?" James asked gently, "We aren't going to just let you go! As soon as you're gone they'll be looking for you."

"Why?" Thompson sneered, "You might not be in a position to tell anyone anything."

James swallowed down his fear and hoped, prayed, that Lewis found his abruptly aborted message odd. Thompson was clearly desperate now, and left with very little to lose.

"You can't hide two little girls forever Richard," Hathaway pointed out, "What would you do? They wouldn't be able to go to school, to ballet lessons, play outside. What sort of a life is that for them?"

Thompson seemed to deflate slightly.

"They'd be with me," he told Hathaway, "That's all I wanted, you see. Christmas with my girls, just one year. But no, she said she wanted them for the day – had everything planned out and I could have them on Boxing Day as usual. All I wanted was something to keep her out of the way for a bit – so I tried to get the spare keys from her mum's house. I didn't mean to kill anyone, not Vera and the girl... but it all seemed to get out of hand, and none of it worked. Then after all that, she started talking about moving away – nothing to keep her here now her mum was dead she said! Like I didn't matter! What else was I meant to do?"

Hathaway had no answer to that.

Lewis was arguing his case to an unyielding DCI Innocent when the constable from dispatch knocked on the door. Innocent called her in sharply, muttering something about it needing to be important.

"Sorry Ma'am," the young officer was hesitant in the face of her two seniors, "Had an odd call in. A lady saw a man leave her neighbour's house, ring someone and then he seemed to get forced back in. She said she wasn't sure but she thinks there may have been a gun. Should we alert the Armed Response Unit?"

Lewis was questioning her, before Innocent could get a word in edgeways.

"Where was this?"

"Summertown sir."

"Lewis..."

"Any description of the man?"

"Young blond man, she said. Wearing a suit."

"LEWIS!"

Innocent was almost shouting now to attract her senior inspector's attention. The young constable flinched at the raised voices.

"Ma'am?" he snapped, already certain that his sergeant was in danger.

"Get down there," she ordered after a moment's thought. There was a time when she would have waited, seen how things panned out, before spending public money on an over-reaction. Now years of experience and gut instinct had taught her when to act on the bare minimum of information. "Don't do anything stupid. I'll alert the ARU." She paused, "Is there anyone else in the building?"

Lewis looked at her, his face full of horror.

"Two kids, ma'am," she reached for the phone in a hurry, waving him out the door.

By the time he arrived at the address he had already forgotten the drive there, all he was aware of was his panic and his relentless racing heart rate. He was getting too old for this, racing through the streets of Oxford, chasing his sergeant. It was nearly Christmas for heaven's sake, he should be at home watching re-runs of terrible war films and taking up quiet, gentle pursuits like fishing and gardening.

The Armed Response Unit were parked around the corner from the house, out of sight of its large bay windows and Lewis pulled his car in behind them. One of their officers, decked out in an array of bullet proof gear had already gone to survey the property, and was reporting over the radio in hushed tones. Lewis listened in for new of his sergeant.

"Two males, front right room, one seated one standing, standing man armed, one handgun visible, aiming at seated male."

"Dear God," Lewis prayed almost instinctively, "please let him be alright, he's a good lad, might not have become a priest but stuck up for you when I wasn't sure anymore. Please, just let him be ok."

The report over the radio continued,

"Two children, female, back left room, clear exit through back door, kitchen radio is on to cover noise."

The ARU commander nodded, and began signalling to his team.

"Get round the back of the property, _quietly_," he ordered, sternly, "Let's get the kiddies out of there, then we can concentrate on the poor sod in the front room." The men nodded, and crept silently around the corner.

"That _poor sod_, is DS Hathaway," Lewis pointed out, his voice stiff with anger and worry.

"Aye, I know" the officer, a burly Yorkshireman, confirmed, "He'll be right, sir. But you know we have to get the kids out, sir. He'd want us to get them safe first anyhow."

He and Lewis crept around the corner, taking care to remain out of Thompson's sight. In the meantime the squad had successfully, and silently, opened the back door and were now slowly and carefully escorting the two children towards their seniors, encouraging the girls to place their fingers on their lips to keep them silent.

Olivia, the five year old, was too young to understand much of what was being asked of her. She had been playing quietly with her dolls when strange men had appeared at the window and whispering, had made them promise to be very quiet. She was confused, Daddy had told her never to with strangers, but they had whispered that they were policemen, although they didn't look like the one's in her story books. As they reached the street, having used the neighbour's drive and bordering hedge for cover she turned to face her house, and asked in a clear carrying voice,

"But what about my Daddy?"

There was a horrified moment of stillness.

They all saw Thompson stiffen, and take a step toward the window, peering out from behind a net curtain to see his two children in the company of the police team. A look of grief and horror, unmistakeable, even at a distance, crossed his face.

Another long moment of silence.

Then the Armed Unit burst into movement, wrestling Lewis and the two children to the ground, as the sound of gunshots echoed twice around the street.


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry – I have had to split the next chapter into two bits as it was a bit mammoth and there was a natural break in it.

Chapter Twelve

Lewis could see nothing but the tarmac, his ears filled with the panicking screams of children and the thunderous footsteps of the armed response unit. He tried to get up, hoping to see the familiar loping stride of Sergeant Hathaway but he was forced back down to the ground with an overenthusiastic shove and a muttered apology.

He just about heard the splintering sound of wood as the front door was broken down over the awkward reassurances one of the policemen was muttering to the children, he clearly had no idea what to say to the fraught girls, but Lewis was too consumed with anxiety to think of anything more appropriate to say to them. Every second he waited felt like an hour until he heard the call that turned the blood in his veins to ice water.

"Man down! We need an ambulance here!"

He couldn't wait in silence any longer, forcing his head up to meet the eye of his guard he snarled,

"Who is it? Who's down?"

Before the young man could answer, a shout went around the Armed Response team, declaring the area secure and finally Lewis was allowed up from the ground. Rising with a groan, he jogged over to what remained of the front door, only to find his way blocked by the large frame of the Yorkshireman he had spoken to earlier.

"You don't want to go in there, sir," he advised, "Bit of a mess. Bloke shot himself."

Lewis wanted to be relieved, to believe that meant that Hathaway was safe, but listening to the rise and fall of conversation within the building he was unable to hear his sergeant's familiar deep tones.

"Where's that ambulance?" the commander bellowed.

And then Lewis knew.

The strength went out of him for a moment and he leaned against the wall, horrified eyes staring at the man next to him.

"Oh, God," he whispered, suddenly certain he was right, "Oh God. He shot Hathaway first."

The police commander could do nothing but nod.

Lewis tried once again to enter the building.

"Sir, the medic's with him, and there's not a lot of room in there," the whining of an ambulance siren interrupted him for a moment.

"Is he alright?" Lewis demanded, realising as he said it that it was a stupid question to ask, ,"Is he conscious?"

The commander led him out of the way of the door, allowing the paramedics in their emerald uniforms to rush into the building and forced him to take a seat on a low garden wall.

"He was shot in the top of the chest, below his left shoulder, he's unconscious and he's lost a fair bit of blood. Sir, I'm so sorry. It's not looking good."

Lewis could do nothing but stare wordlessly at his feet, numb with shock. When the paramedics raced Hathaway past on a gurney he could nothing but follow wordlessly, almost unable to see his too still and too pale friend amongst a forest of IV lines and medication.

Four hours later he was still waiting, only now in the relative discomfort of a hospital waiting room, Hathaway had been rushed to surgery and Lewis had heard nothing further. The doctors had hurriedly explained something about collapsed lungs, torn muscles and something more complicated involving removing parts of his lung that sounded both horrific and dangerous in equal measure.

At some point Innocent had trailed in and sat in silence next to him and about an hour later Hobson blew into the room, her face concerned.

"There's so kind of wild rumour going round that a policeman's been sh..." he face had filled with realisation as she'd taken in their expressions, "Oh Christ, its Hathaway isn't it?" she had dropped into a chair at the other side and not moved since.

Lewis couldn't help but think how touched Hathaway would be to find them all sat waiting for news of him. He'd often wondered what it was in the young man's past that made him appear surprised that people cared about him; when Lewis had pulled him out of Zoe Kenneth's flat he had been genuinely surprised that people had visited him. Someone, somewhere down the line had something to answer for if they had made the brilliant young man feel as though he wasn't worthy of friendship.

He couldn't have said how much later it was that the surgeon appeared in the waiting room, tired and haggard. Laura looked up first, this was her environment, her colleagues, she understood the complex terms and the odds they were so fond of quoting.

"How is he?" she demanded immediately.

"Well have to wait and see," the doctor was solemn, "We've removed the bullet, and put in a drain to re-inflate his lung. Our biggest worry is blood loss, the bullet nicked the subclavian vein and he lost a lot of blood before we were able to repair it."

"Will he be alright?" Lewis' voice was strained and tired, he didn't look up almost as though he was afraid of the news the doctor was going to impart.

"We're keeping him sedated for the time being, when he wakes up we'll be able to better assess what effect, if any, the blood loss has had."

Lewis dropped his face into his hands.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Christmas Day arrived in typically bleak British fashion; cold, damp and miserable. As he had every morning since that terrible Lewis made his way into the John Radcliffe hospital, to sit and chat to his sleeping sergeant. They had been keeping him sedated for a few days but yesterday the dose had been weaned down. Now it was just a case of seeing when, and if, Hathaway would wake up.

He let himself into James' private room, replying to the attending nurses quiet "Merry Christmas" with a gentle smile. He sat down in his usual chair with a sigh, and it was only after long moments that he realised that a pair of wide, blue eyes were watching him appraisingly.

"Jim!" he started forward, almost pitching himself out of the chair.

"Sir," he greeted quietly, his voice hoarse from his recent time on a ventilator, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry - !" a sudden thought occurred to Lewis, "Do you need a doctor or... I should let them know you're..."

Hathaway smiled, sleepily.

"They know, said I'd make a good Christmas surprise sir."

Lewis sank back into his chair relief written over his face.

"You do, but Christ Jim, you gave us all a hell of a fright!"

"Sorry sir," Hathaway's voice was small and full of contrition, "you didn't have to come in on Christmas Day sir. I know hospitals aren't your favourite place."

"Don't be daft lad! Not going to leave you on your own at Christmas," he paused in thought for a moment, "Although I do have to pop out for a while. Didn't expect you to be awake you see. You must be shattered!"

Hathaway nodded.

"Painkillers are making me really sleepy," he yawned, widely, "but I can't feel anything, which is nice."

Lewis stood up decisively, pleased to hear that Hathaway, for the moment at least, was relatively pain free.

"Right sergeant," he said quietly, "you get some rest, I'll see you later."

He couldn't miss the look of loneliness and disappointment of Hathaway's tired face.

James Hathaway didn't expect Lewis to come back for some time. He had berated himself soundly for assuming that his boss wouldn't have made alternative plans once he had been hurt, and resigned himself to an afternoon of counting ceiling tiles for as long as his exhausted eyes would stay open. So when, forty five minutes later his boss breezed back into the room carrying some bags, he couldn't help but be surprised.

"Sir?" he questioned, hating how weak and feeble his voice sounded, "I thought you had plans."

Lewis grinned and rolled his eyes.

"God, you're forgetful sometimes Hathaway, though I suppose you have an excuse this time."

He pulled a laptop and DVD out of one of the bags and proceeded to set it up on a table that was strictly speaking meant to be used for eating from.

"I can't do much about Midnight Mass but I believe you mentioned something about A Muppet Christmas Carol?" he prompted, and was relieved to see the injured man's face light up with a delighted grin.

"Sir you didn't have to..." Hathaway's voice caught, prompting Lewis to rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Get away lad, I wanted to see it," he told him with a jovial grin, " And look," he pulled a packet from another bag, "I even brought you your own packet of Christmas Tree Chocolates."

"Go on Sir, I'll let you share," that dry tone that Lewis had missed so much while Hathaway had been unconcious, was back in his voice, making the inspector grin with relief.

"Don't be daft lad," Lewis went back to rummaging in his bag, "I brought me own!"

An hour later the exhausted Hathaway was fast asleep, leaving Lewis to finish the film alone. He was startled out of the final musical number by his mobile phone, but was unsurprised by the caller.

"Merry Christmas Laura!" he answered.

"Merry Christmas!" she replied, "You sound cheery, I take it that means that the dashing sergeant Hathaway is back in the land of the living?"

"He is,"he confirmed, smiling at the sleeping man, "and he managed to tell me some interesting facts about the Muppets that no one should know so his brain appears to be in working order."

She laughed, relieved.

"Are you still going to Manchester?" she asked, "If so I'll pop over and see him tomorrow afternoon?"

He shook his head and then realised she couldn't see him.

"No, when she heard what happened Lyn offered to bring the family down instead. Made some joke about finally being able to meet the adopted child." He rolled his eyes, before continuing , "Don't think she'll mind. He might though, think she's planning on recruiting him to keep an eye on me while she's busy with the baby."

"Robbie!" she exclaimed teasingly, "He does that anyway! Now I must dash, but I'll see you tomorrow. Give him my love when he wakes up."

"Aye, will do."

With that he hung up and settled back in his chair to enjoy Christmas.


	14. Epilogue

Epilogue

The day Hathaway finally returned to work was a quiet one, so Laura Hobson who appeared in their office doorway in the early afternoon carrying an evidence folder was a welcome distraction from paperwork.

"Welcome back James," she greeted the young man with a broad grin "Feeling better?"

Hathaway shrugged experimentally, his movement still hindered by a tightly fastened sling, "Getting there slowly."

"Good," Laura tossed the folder at Lewis, "this is for you."

He frowned, first at the file, then at her, "We've not got a case on that I've forgotten about have we?"

She shook her head, her grin broadening.

"Nope. That," she indicated the folder, "is Hathaway's brain."

Curiously, Lewis opened the file and slid out a collection of pictures clearly taken from an MRI scan.

"Ah," said Hathaway with a grin, "you got them then?"

Lewis was still squinting at the pictures.

"What am I looking at?"

Laura crossed the room at pointed at the pictures.

"Well, there you have a perfectly normal adult, male brain. No additional memory banks, sponges, robot circuits or anything else that helps him to remember huge amounts of information. I'm afraid Hathaway is just that bright." She saw Lewis smile as he remembered the conversation that now seemed so long ago, and turned away from him to regard his sergeant, "Although James, keep hitting your head like that and you'll be shaking far too many brain cells loose. Try and keep out of trouble ok?"

"I'll do my best doctor." He replied, his face a picture of contrition.

"Now, I've just been reporting to Jean," Hobson went on, "and she's just left for the day for a meeting in London, and apparently the criminal classes of Oxford have taken a New Year break, so I was wondering..."

"Pub?" Lewis asked, immediately catching her train of thought.

"Pub." She confirmed, "James?"

He moved to stand up, but it was Lewis that answered for him.

"Oh he's definitely coming. I reckon he owes us a pint for all the worry he's put us through."

"I can't help but notice sir, that it always seems to be me that owes you a pint and me that ends up with the orange juice?"

Lewis pondered this for a moment,

"Can you drink on those painkillers Hathaway?"

"Well, no, but..."

"See Laura, I'm saving the lad from himself," he defended himself, his face a picture of schooled innocence.

"There's not many bosses that would do that," she noted seriously, "That's very kind of you Lewis. Hathaway should be very grateful. Perhaps he could show his appreciation, with oh I don't know, a pint?"

Hathaway groaned and led the way out of the door.

"Fine! Fine! The first round is on me!" he slowed and fell into step beside Lewis, and spoke quietly to the older man, "Thanks sir, I do appreciate it."

Lewis clipped him, gently and very carefully on the shoulder.

"Ah getaway lad. We were just messing."

"Nonetheless, sir, I'm not."

Lewis nodded, serious for a moment and unsure of what to say. He gripped the sergeant's shoulder, the closest to a manly hug he would permit himself.

"Anytime kidda, you've done the same for me."

Side by side, they left the station.

_And that's it. _

_Thank you so much for reading, especially Prosfan and Moosepath01 whose encouragement has kept my typing up to speed. I'm really happy people seemed to enjoy this and I'm glad I finally got round to writing a seasonal story that finishes while we're still in the appropriate season! (Although I'm now going to lie in a darkened room and rest my weary fingers!)_

_All that remains is for me to wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Peaceful New Year._


End file.
